Repaired
by Eliana Panthera
Summary: Ziva knew that she would never be completely repaired―she had parts and pieces and scars that could never be fixed. -Kate/Ziva- -Post Aliyah- Oneshot.


**Title: **Repaired

**Rating: **T

**Genre: **Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance

**Pairing(s): **Kate/Ziva

**Character(s): **Ziva David, Kate Todd

**Summary: **Ziva knew that she would never be completely repaired―she had parts and pieces and scars that could never be fixed.

**Disclaimer: **If I owned it, they would be married. And Vance would be dead.

**Author's Note: **I really, really love this oneshot, for some reason. It was written while listening to 'Hallelujah' by Jeff Buckley on constant repeat, so it's pretty angsty. But not completely. This isn't beta'd, so sorry for any mistakes that you may find.

XXX

Some nights, Ziva could still feel the dust as it stuck to her sweaty, bloody skin. She could feel the piece of sandpaper that was her tongue as it filled her dry mouth and made it hard to speak. Every once in a while, she would breathe in and the bruises would magically re-draw themselves on her ribcage. They would spread across her body as if someone had spilled them on her skin, and every movement she made would draw out memories of sand and dust and _horriblehorriblehorrible _pain.

On occasion, she would wake up to the feeling of sweaty sheets tightening around her body and remember the thick heat in the air as it would around her like a snake, closing off her airways and slowly melting her into dust. Sometimes, memories would force themselves into her mind and she would remember the punches and kicks and the sound of her screaming and the breaking of bones as _they_ reduced her to a writhing mass of agony. And, if the memories became too much, she would just lie there and scream and wail like a frightened child until her throat burned with the same dryness that had filled it in that horrid cell.

Sometimes, she would drape a wet cloth over her face as they had done, giving herself just enough space to breathe―unlike they had done. She would let the blindness and the claustrophobia and the sense of pure _helplessness_ wind around her. It was a cruel, sick, masochistic game, and she played it constantly. She won if she managed to keep the wet rag on her face, breathing sickly and wetly as she tried not panic at the memories, for more than ten minutes. She always lost.

Other times, during the dark hours when nightmares came out to dance and play and everything managed to become frightening, she would go down to the gym and find a punching bag. She would be in the gym with the others, the people with the same hollow eyes and forever-frowns as her. The people who had experienced horrors, just as she had.

For a long time, even after her arms burned with the dull ache of fatigue and her skin was stained red from bloodied knuckles, she would beat on the punching bags. It was only when her vision spun, tilting like an amusement park ride, and her body seemed to be empty of feeling and organs and anything but air, she stopped. She would go into the locker room showers and collapse under the water that burned her bare skin, her head tucked between her knees and her breath tearing from her throat harshly as she held back the screams and sobs that wanted to break free of the cage she held them in.

At work, she wore a mask that shielded her emotions from the world and hid everything she wanted and did not want her friends to know. None of them had even the faintest idea that, sometimes, when she excused herself to the restroom, she would spend a long time throwing up as she remembered Somalia, as if that would free her from the images and the physical pain. None of them knew that, when a case was too much and pulled a memory up from the swirling currents of her mind, she would have to hide out in the elevator and cry until her eyes were dry and stinging and her whole body was shaking.

Ziva was drying the tears from her face as they left burning trails down her face when Kate walked into the bathroom. For a moment, their eyes met in the mirror and Ziva _saw_ the emotions pass through Kate's face and reflect in her hazel orbs. Her mouth opened, lips parting in the silent beginning of a question. Then, instead of speaking, she simply walked over and grabbed a handful of paper towels, handing them to Ziva with gentle fingers.

Kate never asked what was wrong, simply leaning against the bathroom sink with her lips pursed into a frown and her brown hair falling into her face, framing her expression as if it was a painting. Her presence was strangely…comforting, and for the first time, Ziva realized that she was not uncomfortable with letting herself crumble in front of another person. When Ziva finally managed to stop crying, her knuckles colored white from her grip on the bathroom sink, Kate threw the paper towels away and quietly told Ziva that she was there in case she ever needed _anything_.

When Ziva responded with nothing but a not, Kate slowly turned and walked out of the room, asking no questions and leaving nothing but a faint, reassuring squeeze on Ziva's arm. It was more than enough to make Ziva feel some sense of safety since the ropes had cut into her wrists and hard fists broke her body.

Sometimes, when the dark hours crept back into her sleep and woke Ziva from a dream into a nightmarish reality, she would call Kate and simply let sobs rip from her throat and claw their way free from her mouth as Kate muttered comforting words in a quiet voice. The other woman always sounded exhausted when she answered the phone, but she always talked to Ziva until she calmed from sobbing and screaming to trembling and sniffling, and sometimes even until she managed to fall back asleep.

For the longest of time, Kate was Ziva's rock, her island in the swirling, crashing screaming sea that she had slipped into. She was there, dragging Ziva back to shore to soothe her tears and send the horrible memories scrambling far away―at least for a while.

It was a hot, muggy August night when Ziva woke, tangled in sheets and sweat, and the urge to beat something with her fists until her fingers throbbed and her whole body convulsed from the effort of keeping upright. But, instead of slipping into the cool night air and driving to the gym with the hollow-souled forever-frowning people, she found herself standing in front of Kate's door.

When Kate answered, Ziva collapsed into her arms. Sobs made her whole body shake, as if she was made out of light feathers and downy fluff. Her fingernails sunk into Kate's skin as the brunette carefully dragged her writhing, trembling form into the house. They collapsed together in the foyer, Ziva sobbing and digging her nails into Kate's arms; Kate crying as well as she held Ziva's shaking body close.

It was a long time before they managed to catch a hold on control and calm down, lying in a shaken, tear-stained, messy heap of skin and bones on Kate's wooden floor. Ziva released her grip on Kate's arms, mumbling apologies like prayers as she saw the bloody half-moons her fingernails had molded into Kate's freckle-stained skin.

Kate simply brushed a few strands of hair from Ziva's tired, tear-covered face and rested her fingers on the Israeli's cheek. She stroked the skin there for a moment before whispering that it was all going to be okay and capturing Ziva's lips in the gentlest of kisses.

It was soft and delicate, and Ziva held on tightly to the moment. She was afraid that if she let it slip, it would shatter at her feet and she would never be able to form it back together.

Kate tasted warm and sweet. She tasted like both of their tears, mixed together in a salty tang on their connected lips. She tasted like apologies and regrets and the pain that she was obviously feeling for Ziva. She tasted like every lullaby and comforting word that she had whispered through the phone the last several, agonizing months. And Ziva felt safe, as if someone had wrapped her in a blanket of warmth and comfort and Kate's vanilla-and-orange scent.

When they broke apart, they both closed their eyes and held onto the images and the feelings, locking them into their minds and sketching them into their memories. Neither of them said a word, not wanting to shatter the frailty of the silence, and Kate wrapped her arms around Ziva's body as they slid to the floor once again, melting together.

That was how they slept, wrapped together, no longer two women but one connected being, curled up in Kate's foyer. Ziva knew that she would never be completely repaired―she had parts and pieces and scars that could never be fixed. But Kate ran her fingers through Ziva's hair and whispered comforting words that wound through her brain like a soothing song, and she slept truly, honestly peacefully for the first time since she had been in Somalia.

It was a start.

**Reviews make my world go round, seriously.**


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